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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164431">Simon Snow and the Mystery Scones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover'>sconelover</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Don't send me your dental bills, Enemies to like basically still enemies, Fluff, Gen, Happy Birthday Annabellelux, I love how that's a real tag, M/M, Mentions of underage drinking, Mystery Scones, Our boy Simon loves a good mystery, Sconelover? Writing about scones? Impossible, Scones, Sour Cherry Scones (Simon Snow), Suspicions, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Plotting, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Fifth Year, birthday gift, like the tooth rotting kind, watford-era</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:34:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164431</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz is plotting. Simon's sure of it. Why else would there be warm sour cherry scones waiting for him when he wakes up from his nightmares?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch &amp; Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Simon Snow and the Mystery Scones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/gifts">annabellelux</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE!!! 💕💕💕🎉🎉🎉<br/>Please accept this humble scone-themed fluff as my birthday gift to you. It's been such a joy getting to know you the past few months—you are wonderful, funny, incredibly talented, and so inspiring. Plus you are the sexiest baby vampire around and I mean that in the gayest way possible. (Have you graduated to toddler vampire now that you're a year older?)<br/>Have an amazing day and hope you enjoy the fic ❤️</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/632804207684157440/read-on-ao3">Tumblr post</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>This is the fifth night in a row. It’s not the same every night. Sometimes I dream about the care homes, the older boys who used to push me around. Sometimes it’s the Mage, except he’s evil in my dreams—he’s always surrounded by mist and dead bodies. More often than not, it’s just dark creatures like the ones I’ve had to fight. They keep coming at me, and my sword won’t swing in the directions I want it to, and they overwhelm me… until I finally, blessedly wake up.</p><p>Sometimes it’s Baz.<strike> (Those aren’t always nightmares.) </strike></p><p>Tonight, it’s a dragon. It’s the same dragon from before, and it’s back with a vengeance. It’s on my tail, blowing clouds of fire at me. I’m so tired, and it’s so <em> hot </em>… and suddenly I wake up, drenched in sweat. It is hot in here. And I’m on the floor again.</p><p>I quietly drag myself to my feet. I glance over at Baz’s bed. He’s asleep as usual. Sometimes I wish that my nightmares would at least inconvenience him. It would be satisfying to know I could push his buttons, even in my sleep. </p><p>He’s turned away from me. Sometimes he’s facing this way and I get a glimpse. I like him like that, sleeping. Peaceful. Means he’s not plotting or anything. (I guess he could be plotting. He could be dream-plotting.)</p><p>I push the window open. At least that’ll bother him a bit.</p><p>My stomach rumbles. I always wake up from these nightmares hungry and thirsty, as if they’ve taken some real-life energy from me. I suppose I could store some food up here just for this purpose, but I always forget. And Baz will surely find out if I break into his coveted stash of salt and vinegar crisps. (I like to tick him off, but I don’t have a death wish.) </p><p>There’s something else I always wish for when I wake up from a nightmare. It took me a while to identify the desire after living in care homes my whole life—and then with Baz, who isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. But when I stayed at Penny’s this Christmas, I would always wake up from a nightmare to find her arms around me. If I was trembling she’d hold me tight, whisper that it was okay, and rock me back and forth until I got tired again. It helped more than I let on. </p><p>And if I was hungry, she’d take me down to the kitchen and make me a cheese toastie. (It’s one of the only things Penny can cook, really. She’s not got time to learn the rest.) That was nice, too.</p><p>Tonight I settle for having some water and trying to go back to sleep. I’m scanning over my desk, trying to figure out in the darkness where I left my water bottle, when I see something else. A little parcel, wrapped in napkins. That wasn’t there before.</p><p>My eyes flick over to Baz. For all I know this could be a trick—I’ll open it and something will come crawling out, hell-bent on destroying me. </p><p>Curiosity gets the best of me and I lean forward to sniff the mysterious package.</p><p><em> Oh </em>. I would know that smell anywhere. It’s constantly in my dreams.</p><p><em> Scones. </em> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz  </b>
</p><p>I’m awoken in the middle of the night—again—when I hear the thump. This has happened a few times and usually I just brush it off and go back to sleep. But I hear Snow groan softly, so I risk a glance over. He’s on the floor. Must have been a nightmare, then - sometimes he thrashes about, gets caught up in his blankets and tumbles down.</p><p>But he’s turned away. So I prop myself up on my elbow and let myself have a look. Sometimes doing it at night helps me hate myself less for doing it in the first place.</p><p>For looking at Snow. For liking what I see. </p><p>He sleeps shirtless. (He goes to sleep with his pyjamas on. Then he gets hot and tosses his shirt off in the middle of the night.) I don’t want him to know I’ve seen him this way. But I can’t look away - I can’t stop counting the moles on his back, wondering what it would feel like to trace them with my fingers. </p><p>He’s shaking, his breath coming in rattles, and it breaks my heart. Part of me wants to rush over there and stroke his hair and comfort him in every way I know how. I tamp it down and turn away. He mustn't know I’m awake. He’d kill me if he knew I saw. </p><p>I stay awake until I hear his breaths start going even again.</p><p>I try to be nice in the morning, even when he wakes me up too early with all of his puttering about. (I still slam the window closed, though. It’s<em> February, </em> for Merlin’s sake.) I’m doing my hair in the mirror when he suddenly appears behind me to grab something he forgot from the sink. I feel his body heat briefly as he comes near, and then it’s gone. I imagine him wrapping his arms around me. If I say something… if I say something nice, I’ll probably blurt out something I don’t want him to know.</p><p>So instead what comes out is: “Crowley, Snow, you look awful.”</p><p>“Good morning to you, too,” he mutters, and then he stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. </p><p>It happens again that night. And the night after. Sometimes he falls off the bed, which at least puts an end to the nightmares. Sometimes he just flails about. Sometimes he kicks off all of his blankets. (And then I really can’t sleep.) </p><p>I would give anything to know what he’s dreaming about. He doesn’t talk in his sleep so I haven’t a clue. I can hear him just laying there awake sometimes. I know the feeling. I’ve done the same, when I can’t fall asleep because I know I’ll just see flames. I wish I could tell Snow - I wish I could tell him he’s not alone. I wish I could tell him that I’m here for him. But all I can do is stay here, listening to him breathe raggedly.</p><p>It’s clear that all the restless nights are taking a toll on him. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and his usual cheer is dimmed. But worst of all, he’s not eating as much. I’ve seen him at breakfast—only a few bites of a scone or some toast instead of the usual several he scarfs down. It unsettles me. Simon Snow without a belly full of scones is like me letting my chest hair grow out. It’s simply against the laws of nature.</p><p>The next evening, I stay up late in the library working on a paper. By the time I’m done with that and head to the Catacombs to hunt, it’s well into morning. On the way back to my room, I pass by the hallway that branches off to the kitchen and pause. I can swear I smell… </p><p>I follow my nose down the hallway and the scent hits me like a wall. It smells like Simon. </p><p>Well, it smells like sour cherry scones. I spot a couple bakers puttering about the kitchen. It’s barely half past three in the morning, but they’re already chopping up cherries, folding them into thick dough, sliding sheets after sheets into the oven. The smell is heavenly. </p><p>The idea comes to me then. I dismiss it immediately and slip away back to Mummer’s house. It’s stupid, juvenile, and likely wouldn’t even help him feel better. </p><p>He has another nightmare. A gasping, thrashing one. I wonder what it’s about. I hate watching him like that; I hate seeing him wake up, scared and alone and shaking. </p><p>The next day, I can’t stop thinking about sour cherry scones. Crowley, is this how Snow feels all the time?</p><p>Maybe it will help. Just a little. I slip out of our room around three in the morning and pad over to the kitchen, squinting at the brightness of the industrial overhead lights. For such an old castle, it’s amusing how modern-looking the kitchen is—all brushed steel and gleaming countertops.</p><p>I prepare myself to step in and think of what to say so I don’t make a fool of myself. I’m a Pitch. I can get anything I want at this school. That includes scones. But as soon as I enter, one of the bakers rushes over. She looks motherly and is dusted in flour. “Hello, hello! Come in!”</p><p>I take one step forward. I’m still not sure what to say. I’m suddenly painfully aware of the fact that I am still in my pyjamas. I truly didn’t think this through. I blame it on Snow; he’s the one with the blasted nightmares, the reason I’m here in the first place. It’s easier than blaming myself. (For being soft for him. For wanting to help him. For the way he makes my thought processes go all wonky.)</p><p>The baker is still looking at me. “What are you doing out of bed, at this hour?” </p><p>I was prepared to say <em> studying </em> but the word dies on the tip of my tongue when I see the look in her eyes. It’s not an accusation. She’s smiling, actually. I settle for a half-truth. “Just… got a bit peckish.”</p><p>She laughs then, so enthusiastically that I think for a minute she might be mad. </p><p>I scowl. “What is it?”</p><p>She’s still smiling, amused. “Twenty years I’ve worked here– Pitch, isn’t it?” I nod. “And not once—not even <em> once— </em>have I seen you take a scone at breakfast. Or at tea-time for that matter.”</p><p>I don’t know how to respond to that. I’ve been caught in my lie, but I would rather light myself on fire than tell the truth right now. I didn’t expect this scone journey to be so mortifying. </p><p>The baker surprises me by handing me a little parcel - two hot scones folded inside a napkin. “Free pass this time. Next time I’ll hear an explanation from you, yeah?”</p><p>“I - alright. Thank you.” There won’t be a next time. </p><p>“I’m Catherine, by the way.”</p><p>“Thank you,” I say again, and turn to leave.</p><p>I’m halfway down the hall before I remember. I could go without - but no. If I’m going to do this, I may as well do a good job of it.</p><p>I walk back to the kitchen, steeling myself. I really don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. Catherine has her back to the entrance. I call her name and she turns, raising an eyebrow. There’s no reason to be this nervous, but I can’t help feeling like this woman can read my thoughts.</p><p>I focus on keeping my voice even. “Could I get some butter as well, please?”</p><p>She cuts a couple squares of butter and wraps them up in a second napkin. Then she pauses, dangling the parcel just out of my reach. “Aren’t you roommates with Simon Snow?”</p><p>Another baker looks up at hearing the name and laughs. “That kid! A menace to this kitchen. He must eat thirty scones a day.”</p><p>I take the butter from Catherine and I try not to move a single muscle in my face. “Yes,” I say. “I am.” </p><p>And then I get the hell out of that kitchen as fast as I can without running. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>It’s a trap. The only person that could have brought these scones to our room is Baz. The only reason Baz would bring me scones is to poison me.</p><p>Poisoned scones. Merlin. It’s creative, I’ll give him that. At least I’d die happy. </p><p>My eyes flick over to Baz again. He’s turned this way now, but his face is cast in shadow. I can’t tell if he’s awake or not… maybe I woke him up when I fell off the bed. I rub my shoulder - a bruise is starting to bloom there from all the rough tumbles to the ground. </p><p>Baz moves, slightly, and I think he’s awake. Maybe.</p><p>My stomach growls again. <em> I have to know. </em></p><p>He couldn’t have done this, not without some ulterior motive. He’s never done anything nice for me.</p><p>The scones are warm. There’s butter, too.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>Snow is awake.</p><p>I heard him fall to the floor again and now I can hear him plodding about the room. I wonder if he’s seen the scones.</p><p>This was a rubbish idea.</p><p>I roll over until I’m facing his side of the room. I don’t dare open my eyes but I can hear that he’s stopped moving. I concentrate on breathing slowly. After a minute I hear him shuffling again. I hear the napkin unfurl. I crack open an eyelid, halfway.</p><p>My breath catches at the sight of him and I slam my eye shut before he notices. But I’m holding the image in my mind; Snow, a sliver of his face illuminated in the moonlight. His brow furrowed, a tense set in his shoulders. He’s still shirtless, and his skin looks so soft, and he’s staring at the scones with a mixture of shock and wonder. </p><p>Crowley, he’s perfect.</p><p>I have to forcibly remind myself that he hates me.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>“Baz?” My whisper is nearly inaudible. He doesn’t stir. “Baz?” I say again, slightly louder.</p><p>Silence. </p><p>After a long minute I’m about to just go to bed, or maybe eat the scones anyway—as foolish as that might be—when I hear a rustle from his side of the room. And a suffering sigh. </p><p>“What?” Baz finally says, so quietly I barely hear it. He sounds… irritated. That’s nothing new. I guess he has a right to be.</p><p>“Just– do you know anything about these scones?”</p><p>“Scones? Snow, are you having a fever hallucination?”</p><p>“No.” I scowl, even though he can’t see it. (Well, maybe he can. Vampire senses and all.) “Someone’s left scones on my desk. They’re… <em> warm." </em></p><p>Baz groans. “I really don’t see why I need to be involved in this, Snow. Unless you’re planning on <em> sharing—</em>which is quite above your slovenly sensibilities––I’ll be getting back to sleep now, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“If it wasn’t you, it means someone came into our room, so it may as well concern you.”</p><p>He doesn’t answer.</p><p>“Baz?”</p><p>Another sigh. “I’ve been here since ten. Sleeping, if I might remind you. Go to bed, Snow.”</p><p>“But…” </p><p>Baz rolls over. End of conversation. </p><p>I decide to eat the scones anyway. They’re warm, whoever it was brought slabs of butter, and they’re delicious. Well worth the risk. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>I look a fright in the morning; I really need to start getting more sleep. I dress, spelling myself with an <b> <em>“Early to rise!” </em> </b> and a <b> <em>“Perk up!” </em> </b>to make myself look less… dead. (Well, less dead than usual.) </p><p>As I’m pouring my fourth cup of tea at breakfast, I catch sight of Snow and Bunce at a nearby table. He’s stuffing his face with scones (does he never tire of them?) and talking animatedly. I pretend to busy myself with the sugar so I can hear a bit of their conversation. </p><p>“No, I swear, Penny, I didn’t dream them up–”</p><p>“I don’t know, Si, I wouldn’t put it past you. Maybe you were hallucinating.”</p><p>“Funny, that’s what Baz said.” </p><p>“Well, if it wasn’t Baz, who was it?”</p><p>“I thought it was you, maybe, you’re the only other person who can get into our room.”</p><p>“Wasn’t me, Simon.”</p><p>“Maybe I have a secret admirer,” he muses.</p><p>Bunce and I snort at the same time. Their conversation comes to a halt. </p><p>Shit. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>I glance over at Baz. He’s at the tea table, but this is his fourth cup and he never has more than two, which means he’s just here to eavesdrop on me. Normally someone wouldn’t be able to hear from that far. (Further proof of his vampire senses.) </p><p>But I can’t resist saying something to him. Setting him off, even if he doesn’t show it. It’s like a gravitational pull. It’s almost fun at this point. </p><p>“Something funny, Baz?”</p><p>He turns around coolly, unabashed. Not even the hint of a blush on his face. (Does he ever blush? I’ll have to pay closer attention.) A hint of a smirk plays across his lips. “Just the idea that you’d have a secret admirer, Snow.” </p><p>So he <em> was </em> eavesdropping.</p><p>I scowl. “Why’s that so hard to believe? I have a...” My eyes cut over to Agatha, who’s sitting further down the table chatting with a friend. “Regular… admirer.” </p><p>Penny and Baz make eye contact. (This happens a lot. They always do it when they think I’m not looking.)</p><p>“Maybe it <em> was </em> Wellbelove,” Baz says. He’s staring at her. I glare at him. <em> Stop it.   </em></p><p>“In any case,” Baz continues, “a secret admirer of yours wouldn’t be too secret.” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’re thick as a brick, Snow. They’d have to hit you upside the head for you to even notice.” </p><p>I growl but can’t think of anything to say in response. “I– you–” Baz takes his tea and walks away before I can even get a full word out. </p><p>Penny bursts out laughing as soon as he’s out of earshot. I scowl at her. “What is it?”</p><p>“Oh, Simon. I know he’s your sworn enemy and all, but he’s quite funny sometimes.”</p><p>“I am <em> not </em>as thick as a brick,” I pout. </p><p>“Isn’t that a spell?” Penny muses. “I could swear I’ve read about it somewhere.”</p><p>I swipe at her arm. “It’s bad enough that Baz said it. Don’t have to go around repeating it.”</p><p><b> <em>“Thick as a brick!”</em> </b> she casts on her fork. Nothing happens. She tries again, emphasising a few different words. The fork quivers, then swells until it’s… well, as thick as a brick. She stifles a squeal of glee. </p><p>“Penny!” </p><p>“Alright. Alright, fine. Let’s focus, then.” She adjusts her glasses and vanishes away the giant fork. “The scones.” She picks up a warm cherry scone, presumably for dramatic effect. I grab it and take a bite. She doesn’t even protest. (She knows better.)</p><p>“It wasn’t you,” I say through a mouthful of crumbs. “And Baz says it wasn’t him. And they weren’t poisonous—I mean I’m still here, aren’t I—so I suppose I’ll believe him.” </p><p>“Have you asked Agatha?”</p><p>“Why would she leave me scones?” </p><p>“I mean, she is your girlfriend.”</p><p>“Oh thanks, I hadn’t noticed–”</p><p>“And maybe,” Penny continues, “she wanted to do something nice.”</p><p>“How would she get in?”</p><p>“I get in.”</p><p>“You’re different.” </p><p>She rolls her eyes. “It’s just magic, Simon. Now come on, shall we go ask her?” </p><p>Agatha wouldn’t come into our room. She couldn’t. Not unless someone let her in. And it wasn’t me. </p><p>But I’ve seen the way she looks at Baz… </p><p>I don’t want to assume the worst, though. Agatha wouldn't... and that doesn’t explain the scones, in any case. </p><p>I slide down the table until I reach Agatha. </p><p>“Hi,” she says. </p><p>I find her hand under the table. “Morning.”</p><p>“Sleep well?” </p><p>I shrug. “Nightmares again. But...” </p><p>“But?”</p><p>“Someone, uh, left me some scones. Wasn’t you, was it?”</p><p>Agatha just stares at me. She blinks a couple times. “Simon, I– what?”</p><p>“So it wasn’t you?”</p><p>“Someone left you scones,” she repeats. </p><p>“They were warm,” I add. </p><p>“I... well, no. It wasn’t me. But backtrack first. <em> What?” </em></p><p>“I woke up in the middle of the night, and there was just a parcel of warm scones, with butter, and it wasn’t Baz and it wasn’t Penny,” I say quickly. “Oh, and they weren’t poisonous.”</p><p>Agatha looks skeptical. “Basil couldn’t poison you in the room anyway. Anathema.”</p><p>Oh, right. </p><p>“So who could it be?”</p><p>She just shakes her head. “I haven’t a clue. Maybe someone from the kitchen who’s realised how many scones you eat?”</p><p>“That still doesn’t explain... why it was in the middle of the night. Someone would have had to go to the kitchens at three in the morning.” </p><p>Agatha stands up and gathers her things. “Simon, for all I know it was The Insidious Humdrum. I’ve got to go to class.” She presses a light kiss onto the top of my head. “See you later.”</p><p>“See you.” </p><p>The Humdrum. Now <em> that’s </em> an idea. More feasible than Agatha, at least. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>It’s been less than a week since the scone incident, but I’m convinced that half the school knows by now. Snow has told anyone who will listen about the mystery scones. (It’s nice for him to have an obsession that isn’t following me to football practice, at least. I’ve had some moments of peace for once.)</p><p>And full disclosure: I’ve left scones a couple more times. I just happen to find myself working late in the library… and then I walk past the kitchen corridor… It’s pathetic. (And the whole kitchen knows about me and my sad unrequited crush by now.) (But they’re surprisingly fun to talk to.)</p><p>I shouldn’t find his obsession with finding the mystery scone-leaver endearing. But I do. (One further thing to hate about myself.) It’s adorable, the way he’s so puzzled by this. And I know he just wants to find who it was—because if Snow loves anything, it’s a good mystery—and thank them. I wish I could tell him it was me. Instead I just pine from about six feet away as I secretly watch him do his homework. </p><p>I’m a shame to the Pitch family line, honestly. Vampirism and now fancying Simon Snow, the Chosen One, the Mage’s right-hand man. And leaving him mystery scones. I may as well disinherit myself.</p><p>“Baz?”</p><p>I snap out of my downward spiral as quickly as I fell into it. Whatever blood I have inside me rushes into my ears.</p><p>I’m cool and collected as ever when I slowly drag my eyes up from my book. I make eye contact with him. He’s all flushed and nervous. (Merlin, he’s beautiful. Thank goodness I can’t blush.) “What is it, Snow?”</p><p>“Well, it’s just, um… you- you know…” he stammers out. “The, uh, the scones–”</p><p>“Aleister fucking Crowley, Snow–”</p><p>“Let me finish!” His flush creeps up his cheeks. His magic starts leaking out, like sparks flying and landing right on my shoulders. </p><p>(I love it when he gets heated. He’s so powerful that it’s kind of a turn-on.) (Okay, not kind of. Definitely.)</p><p>I bite my lip. </p><p>“I just… wanted to ask again if you heard anything the past few nights. I know you have, um, good hearing…”</p><p>(Out with it, Snow. I’m a bloody vampire. <em> Vampire hearing </em>is the phrase you’re looking for.)</p><p>“So,” he says. “Did you?”</p><p>I think it’s time to mess with him. Just a bit. </p><p>“Fine,” I say. “There was someone here.”</p><p>His eyes go wide. (They’re blue. They’re beautiful.) “What? When?”</p><p>“I let them in,” I say.</p><p>“You- wh- what? Why?”</p><p>“Stop stammering, Snow, you’ll bite off your own tongue.”</p><p>“I- I’m not–” He lets out a growl of frustration. (I find that hot, but I’ll take that admission to my grave. Sometimes I piss him off just to hear it.) “Just tell me, Baz.”</p><p>I like it when he says my name, too. Even if it’s because he’s angry at me.</p><p>“It’s someone I’m…” I look down. Pause slightly, for dramatic effect. Look back up. “Seeing.”</p><p>With the way Simon’s face turns red, and the room starts to smell faintly of smoke, I know I have this down to a science. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>Agatha.</p><p>It’s the first thing that pops into my head and I try to get rid of the thought immediately. She already said it wasn’t her. She wouldn’t lie to me. And she wouldn’t do that… she wouldn’t come in here. She doesn’t break rules like that. And she’s <em> not </em> seeing Baz… she couldn’t.</p><p>I don’t think she’d have left me scones, in any case. It just doesn’t make <em> sense. </em></p><p>So Baz is just saying this to get a rise out of me. (It’s working, even though I don’t want it to. I’m already feeling stiflingly hot.) And he’s saying it to distract me from the issue at hand. Because clearly, Baz’s fake lover would not leave scones for me.</p><p>I take a couple breaths and then meet Baz’s eyes again. They’re grey, stormy and unreadable as always. He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of himself.</p><p>But maybe he really has done nothing wrong.</p><p>(Alright, who am I kidding. He’s always plotting something.)</p><p>I won’t play his game. He always manages to trick me and make me stutter and make me angry, and I hate how he does that. I feel like a little puppet, being manipulated like that. It won’t work this time.</p><p>“Wow, good for you,” I say, and I even manage a small smile. “Who’s the lucky girl?”</p><p>He glares at me, as if willing me to guess. </p><p>As the seconds pass, I’m having a harder time believing that Baz would bring anyone up here. I’ve never seen him so much as look at a girl––besides Agatha. He hasn’t dated anyone, to my knowledge. And he actually is quite a polite roommate… he usually asks before bringing Dev or Niall into the room. </p><p>Maybe he’s embarrassed. </p><p>Maybe it’s a bloke. Suddenly <em> I </em> feel embarrassed—for assuming. </p><p>“Or guy,” I say quickly. </p><p>Baz arches an eyebrow, amused, and I feel even more stupid. But then he cracks the tiniest of smirks, turns his nose back into his book, and says, “None of your business, Snow.”</p><p>That response can only mean one thing. Baz definitely is not seeing anyone. </p><p>I turn away before he can see my grin. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>It’s late again.</p><p>It’s Friday, and Dev produced two bottles of wine seemingly out of thin air, and I feel positively <em> ridiculous. </em></p><p>I lied to Snow’s face, and he caught me, and he seemed almost <em> happy </em> about something, and I don’t care. I can’t think about anything serious right now except the dimple in his left cheek. That’s a very serious bit. I should do an artistic study of it. </p><p>“A toast,” I propose, raising my glass.</p><p>“To what?” Dev says.</p><p>“To the scones that fucking Snow won’t shut up about,” I mutter, almost to myself. </p><p>Dev just blinks at me for a minute. </p><p>“What?” I ask.</p><p>“It was you, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Those mystery scones that Snow is telling everyone about,” Niall supplies.</p><p>“You bastard,” Dev says, clinking his glass with mine. He’s holding back a laugh. “You <em> absolute </em> tosser.”</p><p>“I did <em> not </em> bring scones for Snow in the middle of the night.”</p><p>They both stare at me. </p><p>“Fine, I brought scones for Snow in the middle of the night. But only because his fucking nightmares keep me up half the time.”</p><p>“You once slept through the Watford fire alarm,” Niall points out. “So…”</p><p>“Yeah, we’re not buying it, mate,” Dev says. “No one else even considers you, because, well… you’re you.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>They share a look. (They think I never spot them. I always do.)</p><p>“So, um,” Dev says. “Why’d you bring scones for Snow?”</p><p>I’m too drunk for this. </p><p>I stand up. “Because I fancy him, alright, and his nightmares were making me sad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go drink some blood, because it’s not bad enough to be gay, I’ve got to be a bloody vampire as well!”</p><p>I storm out of the room, feeling more pleased than guilty. It’s nothing they didn’t know already. And I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>It’s not Agatha. It’s not Penny. It’s not Rhys or Gareth or Marcus. I’ve asked everyone else I know. It’s not so unlikely that I <em> would </em> have a secret admirer… it would be like Phillippa part two. (Poor Phillippa). </p><p>Penny even made me bring one of the scones to her so she could do a tracking spell on it. (It was torture not to eat it.) She tried <b> <em>If lost, return to owner! </em> </b> but it just flew to the kitchens and hit some poor man on the back of the head. Then she used, <b> <em>Go back where you came from, </em> </b>which isn’t really a strong spell, but it made the scone soar across the room and crash into the closed oven door. I guess that’s one way to look at it.</p><p>She even tried <b> <em>Where did you come from, Cotton-Eyed Joe</em> </b>—which, obviously, landed us back in the kitchens once again. </p><p>Any other sourcing spells<b> <em> (Place of origin </em> </b> and <b> <em>But where are you </em> </b> <b>really</b> <b> <em> from?) </em> </b>just took the scone back to my room. (But it’s not Baz… it couldn’t be Baz.)</p><p>Crime-busting spells didn’t work either. (Penny knows all the Scooby-Doo, Sherlock Holmes, and Ghostbusters quotes in the book.)</p><p>Just… whoever it was, it still makes no <em> sense </em> why they would bring me scones. Nobody gets anything out of me eating scones. Someone just… wants me to be happy. And knows that I wake up in the middle of the night. The scones were warm—the person knows the <em> time </em> I wake up in the middle of the night. </p><p>The Humdrum? The Mage? No motive.</p><p>It’s quite romantic, now that I think about it. Mystery scones, all wrapped up in a parcel with butter, left out for me. For a moment when I’m scared and crave the comfort of a scone. It’s lovely, really. I’d like to thank whoever it is.  </p><p>Tonight I’m staying awake. I’ll stay up all night if I have to. I usually wake up around half past three or four. The scones have been there three times this week. Warm. </p><p>I’ve had coffee today. I’ll make it through. </p><p>I stayed up late playing card games with Penny and Agatha in one of the common rooms. Only two more hours. </p><p>I finish all of my homework. I attempt to read one of Baz’s books. (It’s dull.) I even tidy my side of the room. (Baz will be happy.) That’s a bit too much good karma, so I rig up a contraption using an old shoelace and some super glue to stop Baz from cranking the window closed. I’ve always been an early sleeper, so this much empty time during the night is strange for me.</p><p>Around three, I just turn off the lights, lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling. </p><p>I’m half asleep when, at three something, Baz eases open the door to our room, quiet as a mouse. I try to breathe evenly. He drops his bag on his bed and pads over to the ensuite. A few minutes later, he comes back and sits on his bed. I clamp my eyes shut; I think he’ll be able to see if they’re open. He’s still for a long minute (is he looking at me?) until I hear shifting again as he gets into his bed. I half open an eye.</p><p>As he pulls at the blanket, his bag tumbles to the floor and the contents come spilling out. He curses quietly as he gathers everything… but not before I see a round, cream-colored, cherry-spotted item. </p><p>I think I may be dreaming. I sit up so abruptly that I feel dizzy. </p><p>Baz stares at me. I stare back. </p><p>I flick on the light.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>I’ve never been more confused in my life. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>He stares at me. I’m flushed, somehow. (Blood and alcohol—not a good combination.) I stare back. For once, I’m completely lost for words. </p><p>The scone rolls on its side like a coin and then settles delicately on the floor. Simon’s eyes lock onto it. </p><p>“Was it you?” he says quietly. “The whole time?”</p><p>I can’t look at him, so I look at the scone. The room spins slightly around me.</p><p>I’ll say it.</p><p>I can’t say it.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>Baz has an honest-to-god <em> blush </em> creeping up his cheeks, and it’s just the most wonderful sight. (He looks bloody good, he does.) It sounds silly, but it shows me that he’s… human. That he really does have emotions. I’ve never seen him like this before, at such a complete loss.</p><p>But I still can’t fathom…</p><p>“Why?” I ask. I’m counting my heartbeats. My eyes are dry from not blinking but I <em>can’t</em> <em>breathe</em> I just need to know. Why why why.</p><p>And then he looks up at me, and for a minute he’s just my roommate. For a minute I can imagine an alternate world where we might have been friends. At this hour of night, everything is put aside, at least for one moment. </p><p>“Crowley, Snow,” he says, and I swear he’s smiling just a little bit, “I get nightmares too. And I might not crave scones the way you do but I know…” He trails off. </p><p>What the fuck. Honestly. This is the least likely thing to happen in my life ever. I think I was probably less shocked when the Mage himself showed up at my care home and told me I was magic. </p><p>What the fuck.</p><p>I force myself to speak.</p><p>“You know how it feels,” I say, hoarsely. “To wake up like that. Scared and… just wanting… a scone?” </p><p>I feel like a buffoon. I feel like I’m saying all the wrong things and this moment is going to shatter like glass.</p><p>He hesitates. “A bit of comfort,” he corrects, and something inside him seems to <em> release </em> as he lets out a breath. I can’t look away—this is a new Baz, an open and vulnerable Baz. It’s like a perfect rainbow, like a shooting star, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. Something rare and fleeting. Something I feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to see.  </p><p>We stare at each other for another moment. At night, he lets his hair hang down around his face, and he looks so <em> young </em>—like just another student, not the aloof prince he pretends to be all day.  </p><p>I think I won’t get to see this Baz again. I try to hold the image in my mind, savour it. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>“It’s– it’s a lot of trouble,” Simon finally says. “To get those. They were warm. Every night.”</p><p>
  <em> You’re worth it, Simon Snow. </em>
</p><p>“I was out late. Studying.”</p><p>He cracks a smile. “You could have just lent me some crisps–”</p><p>“If you touch my crisps, Snow, I swear to Merlin–”</p><p>“I didn’t,” he says quickly.</p><p>He looks at me. Blinking at me with those gorgeous eyes and those dimples and those goddamn fucking moles. </p><p>I want to melt and tell him everything. But I can’t.</p><p>I’m still staring at him. He’s had to have noticed by now.</p><p>He’s waiting for an explanation. And he’s looking at me as if I might dissolve any second, like the fucking Wicked Witch of the West.</p><p>“Well, good,” I spit out, and I think we’ve been nice to each other for too many sentences in a row because I’m <em> itching </em> inside. </p><p>“Baz,” he says, and I stand up abruptly to cut him off before he says anything else.</p><p>I fish the scones out of my bag and toss them at Simon. Then I switch the lights off. He clutches the parcel like it’s a stuffed animal, his eyes shell-shocked. “Just eat your fucking scones, Snow.”</p><p>“I just–”</p><p>This can’t happen. Snow can’t be nice to me, because then I’ll be nice to him, and then my life as I know it will be over because I won’t be able to <em> control </em>myself if we’re nice to each other. I’ll kiss him. Or I’ll bite him. I don’t know.</p><p>There is no happy ending here. He’s not going to sweep me off my feet and we’re not going to ride off into the sunset or roll in the grass outside the forest or go home for Christmas together. Ever. </p><p>So I might as well just put an end to it now. Before it can start.</p><p>“Snow. Go to sleep.”</p><p>“But why are you–”</p><p>“If you don’t stop asking questions, I’m going to nail your tongue to the bedpost,” I snap. </p><p>“I’m not–”</p><p>“Fucking Crowley, Snow. Eat the goddamned scone. Stop bothering me. Goodnight.”</p><p>“You’re the one who brought me the fucking things! I think I’m at least owed an explanation,” he grumbles.</p><p>Snow’s fuming, his magic rolling off in waves. If I wasn’t already drunk on wine, I’d be drunk on this. This woodsy, smoky, sparky magic that washes over our room, douses every surface. I could sink into it. </p><p>I can’t think of anything good to say, so I just say, “No.”</p><p>Something hits me in the face. The scones. “Arsehole,” he says, but his heart’s not in it. </p><p>“No argument there,” I say quietly, so quietly I’m not sure he even hears. And then I roll over and lay awake for another several hours, wondering what the fuck just happened, waiting as his magic slowly dissolves away. Listening to him breathe.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>If anything, I’m more confused than before. </p><p>What did he say? <em> A bit of comfort?  </em></p><p>Truly. What. The. Fuck. </p><p>Baz Pitch doesn’t do things out of the <em> goodness of his heart. </em>I’m not even sure he has a heart—do vampires have hearts? (They must, because you can stake them, right?) Either way, there’s no goodness in it. It’s black and shriveled. Like the Grinch’s, but before it grew three sizes.</p><p>So the next day, I wake up early and go to the source.</p><p>The kitchens. If Baz won’t give me an answer, Cook Pritchard will. </p><p>I knock on the wall by the kitchen and wait for Pritchard to come over. She’s plump and motherly, with curly hair caught up in a net. “Simon Snow,” she says. “What brings you down here?”</p><p>“I, uh…” It feels stupid now that I have to say it out loud. “Do you know if Baz has been down here to get scones? As in, my roommate, Baz. Um. Basilton Pitch?”</p><p>“I don’t think so…” she says.</p><p>“He has,” a man pipes up from the back. “Middle of the night, before you get in.”</p><p>“That sounds right,” I say.</p><p>“Well, as long as no one’s breaking any rules.” Pritchard looks concerned, but waves the other chef towards me. “Answer his questions. I’ve got to finish up breakfast.”</p><p>“Catherine,” the man says, looking behind him. A woman with red hair appears, hands on her hips. “You’ve talked to him, right?”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“The Pitch kid.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah.”</p><p>“Erm…” I start. “So any idea <em> why </em> he’s bringing me scones?”</p><p>They exchange a look. “Why don’t you ask him,” Catherine says.</p><p>I groan. “Because he won’t tell me! He’s being all… weird and cryptic.”</p><p>“That don’t seem right,” the man says. “He’s right friendly when he comes down here.”</p><p>Baz? <em> Friendly? </em></p><p>“Are we talking about the same person?” I ask. “‘Bout this tall, black hair, broody, constantly looking down his nose at everyone else?”</p><p>“Look, kid, he wears pyjamas with little stars on them,” Catherine says. “Forgive me if I’m not intimidated by an emo 16-year old.”</p><p>
  <em> But he’s—  </em>
</p><p>“He’s <em> plotting,” </em>I say.</p><p>They exchange another look. They know something, they must!</p><p>“What is it,” I scowl.</p><p>“If he wants to keep it a secret, maybe it’s for a reason, ever think about that?” the guy says.</p><p>“Yeah, so he can <em> plot </em> my <em> downfall,” </em> I insist.</p><p>Catherine rolls her eyes. “Or maybe,” she says, “he’s worried about how you’d react if you knew the truth.”</p><p>“Which is?” I prod. </p><p>It just seems impossible that Baz would do something kind for me because… because what? Because he doesn’t actually hate me? Then why would he…</p><p>Push me down the stairs. Try to steal my voice. Set a fucking chimera on me. Frame me for anything and everything. (Literally—he once tried to trap me in an enchanted picture frame.) Send a band of worsegers after me. Or snow devils. Make me go off at the worst possible times… </p><p>Bring me scones.</p><p>It doesn’t add up.</p><p>Catherine’s look softens. “He’s a good kid. Just talk to him.”</p><p>“He won’t talk to <em> me–” </em></p><p>“Try again,” the man says.</p><p>I stare at them, and they stare back. It’s pretty clear I’m not going to get any answers.</p><p>Baz wants to keep his secrets? Fine. I’ll <em> make </em> him tell me.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>It’s been a disastrous day. We were practising heating spells in class—<b>Some like it hot! </b> and <b>You’re getting warmer! </b> They’re trickier than one would expect; elemental spells always are. But not so tricky that things should <em> explode. </em></p><p>Snow apparently didn’t get the memo. (Does he ever?) </p><p>His pot went up in a ball of fire, spraying half the class with boiling water. Six people, including Bunce, had to be rushed to the infirmary, while the rest of us dried off and cleaned up the classroom with magic. My hair got wet, and I was not happy about it. I cast <b>Dry as a bone,</b> but I was too upset for the proper nuance needed, so now my hair is papery and straw-like. </p><p>I can finally, blessedly take a shower after football practise and do a deep conditioning treatment. I fed last night, so I get straight into my pyjamas. </p><p>Snow’s at his desk when I emerge into the room, bringing a cloud of steam with me. He’s sat the wrong way round in his chair, his forearms propped on the back. (He has a shiny burn mark on his arm from today.) He was waiting for me.</p><p>Good. He can wait some more. I ignore him skillfully and busy myself with gathering my schoolwork, smiling to myself when I hear him huff in annoyance.</p><p>“I need to ask you something,” he finally forces out.</p><p>I draw it out as long as possible, listening to him get more and more agitated, before finally turning around. “Not sure if you’re capable of that, Snow.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Seeing as your elocution is so bad you can’t even heat a pot of water without something exploding–”</p><p>He growls, “It was an <em> accident.” </em></p><p>He’s flushed, and it makes him look all the more vivid, all the more alive. I can hear his pulse. I can smell his blood, buttery and rich, so close to the surface. His cross, rattling in my jaw. And his magic, sparking more than usual because of today’s events. </p><p>His hair’s all messed up from being splashed with water; his curls have grown out, and they’re springing in random directions. He’s such a mess. A gorgeous, stubborn mess.</p><p>If I look at his reddened cheeks any longer, my fangs will drop. I look at my desk and try to force them back, but my mouth feels heavy and thick.</p><p>“Everything’s an accident with you,” I spit out. “You’re such a sorry excuse for a mage.” It’s a low blow, but it has the intended effect—his magic rises up, green and smoky, covering up the allure of his blood. I relax, slightly. “I mastered that spell when I was eight.”</p><p>“Of course you did,” he mutters. I expected him to say something else back, but the fight seems to have left him. “I didn’t even know that magic <em> existed </em> when I was eight.”</p><p>I can smell Snow’s magic intensify and fill the room, as if in his defence. I’ll never tell him, but I love it. Maybe because I’m used to feeling it all the time from sharing a room with him for nearly six years. It doesn’t bother me like it does the other students. I think I could let it consume me.</p><p>There are so many things I could say right now. Some of them could get him to storm out of the room, and then I’d have at least one pleasant moment after this horrible hair day.</p><p>Except.</p><p>Except he looks kind of pathetic right now. His eyes downcast and melancholy, his lips curled into a frown. I don’t usually take pity on Simon Snow, but it seems to be all I’ve been up to lately. Might as well keep up the trend.</p><p>So I don’t say anything, just put in my illegal earbuds and start on my assignments.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>Baz has shut me out. I know I’m stewing, and any moment now he’s going to snap at me about my magic and make me leave. Even I can feel it; it’s thrumming inside me, sticky and hot. I stand near the window and try to take deep breaths.</p><p>Baz gets up a moment later and closes the window. (Well actually, he wrestles with it for a moment, curses like a sailor, glares at me, then unspells the shoelace trap far too easily for the amount of work I did.)</p><p>It seems counterintuitive; anyone else would be coughing by now. But he doesn’t say anything about my magic. </p><p>I lean my head into my hands and eventually breathe and force it back to a somewhat normal level. “I just want to talk about the scones,” I say, but either he doesn’t hear me or pretends not to. </p><p>He keeps ignoring me until eventually I just go to bed.</p><p>But.</p><p>I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s gone.</p><p>He’s <em> gone. </em></p><p>
  <em> A-ha! </em>
</p><p>I don’t even remember what my nightmare was about because all I can think is that I’ve got him now. I’ve got him. I’ll just corner him, and he’ll <em> have </em> to tell me what he’s plotting. Why he’s doing this. Why he’s pretending to be nice…</p><p>Maybe he’s trying to get me to be his friend—the idea is laughable—and then he’ll stab me in the back when I’m least expecting it. </p><p>If he truly wanted to be friends he wouldn’t be two-faced like this. Genuine one second and snapping at me the next.</p><p>Maybe he’s trying to put me under his vampire thrall. Can he do that?</p><p>Maybe he <em> is </em>trying to poison me, but it’s not working. I wouldn’t put it past him, and I wouldn’t put it past my magic to counteract a poison before it even got into my system.</p><p>Maybe…</p><p>Maybe…</p><p>I sit up, and that’s when I notice the ensuite light is on.</p><p>Never mind. He’s just in the toilet.</p><p>I hate when Baz does normal things. It unsettles me. Like, sure, sometimes we all get the midnight shits, but Baz Pitch doesn’t. Or shouldn’t. I don’t know. It makes him seem too human.</p><p><em> I get nightmares too, </em> he said.</p><p>He said he knows how it feels.</p><p>I lean over, setting my elbows on my knees, and wait. My cross dangles, catching a slant of moonlight coming into the room. I stare at the door.</p><p>I’ll figure this one out.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>Snow’s awake. I can hear his pulse speed up.</p><p>He’s relentless.</p><p>I brace myself and step out of the bathroom. He’s sitting on his bed—still shirtless, <em> Merlin— </em>and is waiting for me. Again.</p><p>I suppose I’ll have to face him eventually.</p><p>“What is it,” I ask before he can say anything.</p><p>“I just,” he says, then stops. Pushes his hair off his sweaty forehead. “Just.”</p><p><em> “What,” </em> I snap.</p><p>I can’t let myself be soft with him, no matter how much I want to, because it’ll all be a downward spiral from there. But he’s right there. Sleepy and vulnerable. Not trying to punch me.</p><p>If he finds out…</p><p>Then he’ll want to punch me. </p><p>He’ll be disgusted. Repulsed. More than if he found out I was actually a vampire… more than anything.</p><p>I can handle him hating me for any other reasons, just not for this. Not for something I can’t <em> help… </em></p><p><b> <em>“Just tell me why!” </em> </b> he bursts out. It comes out laced with magic, and to my horror I feel pressure building up in my throat, my traitorous lips threatening to spill everything. I clap a hand over my mouth, and Simon flings his arm towards me. <b> <em>“You don’t have to!”</em> </b>  </p><p>The pressure releases. “Control your magic,” I snarl.</p><p>“You don’t have to explain,” he says again. Now he just looks weary. “But just, well. It all makes no sense. You <em> hate </em> me.”</p><p>“Thank you for the reminder.” I cross over to my bed so I don’t have to look at him. And then I sit down, and I can’t look away. </p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>I’m not answering that. </p><p>“If you don’t,” he continues, “why do you act like it all the time?”</p><p>
  <em> Because if I don’t try to hate you, I’ll try to kiss you and that will definitely be worse for both of us.  </em>
</p><p>There’s too much empty air between us. Too many unspoken words. </p><p>“And if you <em> do,” </em> he says, “why did you want to <em> comfort </em>me with scones?”</p><p>Because.</p><p>Because.</p><p>So I lie, because it’s what I do best. “I still hate you,” I tell him, and his eyebrows crunch together. “You’re just pathetic enough that I felt bad for you.” </p><p>“You felt bad for me,” he repeats.</p><p>I hold his eyes, daring him to challenge the statement. But he just flops down onto his back.</p><p>Conversation over, I suppose. I peel back my blankets and slide under the covers.</p><p>I can hear him breathing. I try to match his breaths.</p><p>“Baz,” he says. </p><p>He avoids saying my name when he can help it; it’s always a bit shocking when he does say it.</p><p>I sigh heavily. “What now?”</p><p>“I, um. Thank you. Really. It, um. It means a lot.”</p><p>I turn on my side, and he’s looking back at me. “I’d appreciate your discretion, Snow.”</p><p>He gives a tiny laugh. “You’ve got a reputation to uphold. I know.”</p><p>I groan. “Let’s never speak of this again.”</p><p>“You’ll have to explain at some point.”</p><p>“Fine,” I say. “I’ll tell you when we graduate.” Three years should do it. He’ll forget about it. Or one of us will be dead.</p><p>“I’ll hold you to it.” </p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>Snow swallows. He seems calmer than usual, now; his pulse slow, his magic further below the surface. Then he nods, and turns onto his back again. “‘Night.”</p><p>“Good night, Snow.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Three years later.</b>
</p><p>Simon never asked me about the scones.</p><p>But I have a feeling that he puzzled out my reasons.</p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: The statements in this fic regarding Baz's chest hair do not necessarily represent the official thoughts or opinions of the author.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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